See how I try
by Anuna
Summary: "Scars mark us, but they don't tell who we are, only what we've been through." Draco/Hermione.


**Title:** "See how I try"

**Fandom:** Harry Potter

**Pairings/characters:**Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Malfoy, mention of Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley; Ron Weasley, George Weasley, OC

**Rating:**PG - 13

**Genre:** romance, drama, introspective

**Spoilers:** Everything? DH compliant for the most part, EWE.

**Summary:** _Scars__mark__us,__but__they__don't__tell__who__we__are._

**Disclaimer:** everything that might look familiar to you belongs to JKR, and not to me. I'm not making any profit with this story, it has been written for fun.

**Author's****notes:** So, this is my first try at writing about this amazing pairing. I had lots of fun writing this, and it was quite challenging as well. There are different POV's through this, and I enjoyed them all, there's a baby (eep), there's stuff about family, forgiving, redeeming yourself. I can only hope I did these amazing characters justice, and I also hope you'll like what you find in this little tale (well, okay – it's not so little). Since this is my first attempt at Draco/Hermione, any comment or suggestion will be greatly appreciated. I would really love to know what you thought of it.

Beta read by my amazing and lovely friend leanstein. Any remaining mistakes are mine. The title was borrowed from Wet Wet Wet's "Goodnight Girl".

Harry neared the house sitting on top of the hill and braced himself. Christmas related gatherings were pleasant, but still a chaotic experience even in best of families. He was blessed to share many of his holidays with the Weasleys, who loved each other dearly, but bickering combined with the holiday cheer could drive even them nuts. One should simply ask Molly Weasley about various types of Christmas related disasters.

However, anything that Fred and George could dish out probably wasn't a match for the event he was about to witness today. That is, if things went south.

On the outside the small house resembled a Christmas card. A snow covered Christmas tree stood in the garden, complete with charmed twinkling lights, and a snowman next to it. Someone thoughtfully added an empty bottle of firewhiskey tucked in its side where the hand should have been, and a skewed, oversized hat. Harry snickered, hatching the garden door behind him. Now, that was something Fred and George would approve of. It actually looked like something George _had_ made, there was something strikingly familiar and mischievous about the snowman. A shadow of regret ghosted over his smile before he raised his hand to knock. Fred would love to be here. So many other people would.

The door opened even before he was able to knock. Harry knew he should have been used by now to Malfoy's less than put together appearance, especially when he came around for a sudden visit. It seemed that having a small child could do that to a person. His usually neat hair was ruffled and his clothes have obviously been through abuse under grabby child hands, yet he was surprisingly patient through it all.

Right now Harry's former school nemesis seemed delighted to see him, not that Draco would admit it out loud. Harry nodded to him and smiled broadly at the child he was holding. It was a well practiced hold, baby's back against his front, something that came with experience. Harry would never peg him for a parenting type, but then again, he found out interesting and unexpected things about Slytherins in general.

"Potter! Thank Merlin! Why are you just standing there? Come on in."

All through their school years Draco was known for, among many other things, his impeccable looks. There had to be a Malfoy family law that states any Malfoy was bound by honor to look his absolute best at each and every opportunity. Something had to explain the years he spent having his hair slicked black and trousers perfectly pressed, even after fake Mad Eye turned him into a ferret.

"Admiring the fashion statement you're obviously making," quipped Harry. They weren't enemies any more, they were work colleagues and sort of friends because he was married to Hermione, but that didn't mean they weren't exchanging barbs any more. It was just another matter of honor, to trade insults, but they didn't bother Harry any more.

"Ha – ha. Very funny. Don't play with daddy's tie, sweetie," Harry's mouth quirked up at the change of tone. Slytherins weren't cold. They simply had to keep a scorching fire hidden. It was enough to burn them, while keeping their loved ones warm and safe. A tarnished appearance was, perhaps, a less dramatic version of this trait. Harry had seen him in much worse states, but naturally they didn't discuss it.

It seemed that six – month old Emily wasn't about to give up on her intention to ruin her father's reputation. She was nothing if not persistent to get what she wanted, which only indicated she was like both of her parents. Well, God help the two of them. Harry deliberately chose not to think about the fact that he would experience the joys of fatherhood, and perhaps ruined clothing pieces, in the near future. Ginny probably knew just how much he was terrified.

"Malfoy, this place looks like something exploded in-"

"There you are! Draco Malfoy! What on Earth are you wearing? Oh, hi Harry -"

Harry waved, refraining from making a joking comment when he saw Hermione's rather stressed expression. The living room was a mess.

"Granger, do you honestly think one can watch over your daughter and get properly dressed at the same time?"

"_My_ daughter? If I'm not mistaken she is your daughter as well, which is why you're spending your time with her -"

"Seriously, guys, are you putting her through this all the time?" Harry teased from a safe distance. Emily didn't seem bothered by the way her parents communicated. It was amusing how Hermione mastered Malfoy's patent eyebrow rise. Harry decided it was time for godfather to intervene. "Why don't you let me take care of this sweet little princess for a while, while Malfoy goes to change that necktie?"

"Not a bad moment to actually become useful, Potter," Draco spoke it with mock annoyance. Harry shared a knowing look with Hermione as she mouthed a soundless thank you. Harry was pretty certain he was preventing a disaster with his early arrival, in more ways than just one.

"Come to your godfather, sweetheart," Emily went willingly to him, eying his glasses with alarming interest. Harry managed to block Emily's first attempt at his eye wear.

"You can say goodbye to that thing," Draco gestured, attempting to smooth his hair. He looked exhausted. "Are you capable of surviving this?"

"Spending time with a fellow Gryffindor while you attempt to put your appearance back together? Anytime."

Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry.

"My daughter will _not_ be in Gryffindor," he retorted.

"We'll see," answered Harry. He watched his friends' retreating backs as they made their way upstairs, bickering lightly as they went. Draco was as good as people got in not letting on how they felt, but his tension was slipping through the cracks. Harry could tell, and if he could, then Hermione certainly knew. He looked at the little girl he was holding in his arms. "Now tell me, love. Am I saving you from your parents, or am I saving them?"

Not a while longer the Granger – Malfoy residence was cleaned up, neat and pretty, with wrapped gifts under a Christmas tree and things smelling wonderfully from the kitchen. The interior of the house carried an unmistakable Hermione – touch: plenty of books, old fashioned, comfortable furniture, a television and a telephone. Everything at its place. Carpets and paintings and decorations were chosen according to the more expensive Malfoy taste. It all fit together nicely, though; the best of both worlds, Harry mused. It was considerably smaller than the Malfoy Manor, and just once Draco said that a smaller space didn't feel as empty.

Harry had an idea – no, an inkling about what he should do today, which was why he was standing in the garden, in his unbuttoned coat, enjoying the mixed effects of winter's cold and his well done warming spell. There was a cup of tea in his hand as he stared over the serene landscape. There was a mixed muggle – wizarding village in the valley. A neat place, he thought. Fitting even.

Not five minutes later after he went outside, Draco followed him. He was nicely dressed and his hair looked usually neat. He too had a cup of tea.

"Nice day," said Harry.

"Agreeable," Draco commented somewhat flippantly.

"Agreeable?" he frowned. "How can a day be agreeable?"

"Colder than hell, ice beneath the snow so you can break your neck if you happen to be in bad luck; with shitty weather rapidly approaching us," Draco clarified. "Weather seems to agree with me."

"Oh, I see," Harry answered, suppressing a smile.

Draco snorted. Harry sighed inwardly. There will come a day when he would save Draco Malfoy from something – again. He had a better understanding of him now, than he used to in their school days. Draco would rather implode than say something in front of Hermione. Harry decided he didn't mind being the punching bag for awhile, if that mean nobody would be seriously harmed at the end of the day.

"Glad I could make that clear for you, Potter," even though Draco's voice was stern and clipped, there was no real venom in it. He was nervous, though, and Harry knew Hermione wouldn't ask him to come early without a good reason. The Christmas party alone wasn't it, not even with Ron and George coming over. His nervousness had a darker hue to it, it felt heavier. There had been a tinge of regret and a shapeless mass of those old feelings, misunderstandings and resentment. Harry glanced briefly at Draco, not envying him when it came to living parents.

Draco had been lucky, or perhaps smart, when it came to choosing of his spouse. They were both neat freaks. Hermione loved him dearly, and the odd mix of passionate and seemingly cold was working out well for them. He was always pale, with that blond – white hair, lacking color and seemingly draining it from anything that was near him. After the war he looked lifeless. It might have been a huge cliché, but Harry believed it was Hermione who built him all over again.

Making conversation with Draco Malfoy was an acquired skill. It consisted of tactfully held silences and precisely chosen comments. It was more like chess and much less like Quiddich of Draco's and Hermione's fake arguments.

It was almost time for a strategic attack, Harry thought.

"How are your parents?" Harry asked with neutral tome. There was just a slight shift in his companion's stance and a brief clenching of his jaw.

"Mother is good. I suppose she's ... enjoying this," Draco gestured around them. "Father is getting older and crankier. I don't see him very often," he offered up just a tad bit more information than was strictly necessary.

Harry chose that moment to look at him.

"Are they coming over?"

Draco was silent for a moment, lost somewhere far away. Perhaps in some other time.

"They are."

There, Harry thought. Well, if he were Draco, he would certainly be worried, if not worse.

"Did you get them presents?" he decided to nudge the conversation into slightly safer waters.

"Uh – huh. My lovely wife, bless her, saved me from that task this year," Draco paused, delicately turning the cup in his hands. Harry waited patiently while minutes rolled past them. He had several of these conversations with Draco, and knew he would only say things under his own terms. "Mother will love hers, of course. Mother is easy, she is the one who's trying. Father never wants anything."

harry let that comment settle down between them.

"I doubt it, Malfoy," he said after several moments have passed. He waited until Draco slanted a look towards him. "If that were true, he wouldn't accept the invitation, correct?"

"I suppose one could look at it that way," Draco sounded less certain.

"It wouldn't be very Slytherin of him, then," Harry replied, his tone sounding lightly amused.

Draco snorted quietly.

"How would you know that?"

"I suppose I've spent enough with you," Harry replied. "Sharing office with someone can do bad things to a person, get them under really bad influence, you know," he added with appropriate exaggeration.

Draco chuckled lightly and relaxed a bit. After that they finished their tea in silence.

Lucius Malfoy was certain that life was a curious thing.

He didn't posses a fearful nature – not in the most basic sense. He could be rather intimidating, when he chose to be, and he'd been rather arrogant for the better part of his life. There had been few moments, however, that have taken him by surprise. Not that he would admit this out loud.

Lucius certainly wasn't afraid of infants. Infants were usually harmless, and sometimes quite annoying and loud. He had held an infant before, he did raise a son after all (even if he hadn't been the best father), and he would not drop a baby. However, the first time he had seen his brand new granddaughter, he didn't dare picking her up. It wasn't for the lack of interest or a simple curiosity, it just hadn't felt appropriate. Besides. He wasn't certain that she wouldn't turn out, well ... like her mother, the -

He refrained from using that word now, even in his head. It had been quite compulsory and conscious; and he censored himself enough to give himself ticks. However, a Malfoy was supposed to be flawless in his manners, and since his son did marry the Granger girl, Lucius wasn't going to call her anything but daughter – in - law aloud. It helped if he didn't call her anything else in his head either.

That, and both his wife and son were quite good at Legilimency. He wasn't the most popular member of his own family, quite the opposite. Any sort of faux pas wouldn't help the strained silences between his son and him.

If Lucius was completely honest, which was something he didn't enjoy doing, he would admit that he was ashamed of quite a few things. Things of his own doing, actually. One of them was calling many people, his daughter – in - law included, that name. And now? He was going to a Christmas afternoon tea organized by his _Muggle__born_ daughter – in – law, where he would surely meet more _Muggle__born_ people, and of course, Hermione Granger's _Muggle_ parents.

A week ago, when their family owl brought a neatly handwritten invitation, Narcissa had given him one stern look and said he was doing this for his son and his grandchild. His wife didn't have the problem with picking up small children. As much as he could see, she was very comfortable around Emily. Narcissa was rather delighted, and dare he say – happy. She didn't have a problem with the name Emily, or the fact that their family had expanded in a certainly unpredictable way. When she was born , the girl was small; smallest infant he had ever seen in fact (not that he had seen too many), possibly due to the fact that she was born three weeks early. Narcissa was very worried – Draco had a Quiddich accident and his pregnant wife got so upset, she went into labor. Lucius didn't yet decide if that was good or bad thing. The girl obviously cared about Draco, but her reaction was a typical, overly dramatic Gryffindor reaction. Moreover, she gave birth in a Muggle hospital, and visiting her there was quite unthinkable, but Nracissa had insisted.

After it was done, Lucius assumed it went well, all things considered. He certainly did his best not to show what he thought of the Muggle world and all the devices they were able to attach to a living human. Their care for newborn infants didn't appear very encouraging, quite the contrary, but he wisely refrained from any sort of comment back then.

Ever since the war, and the events that followed within next two years (events that almost cost them all their lives), Narcissa did not seem to care about some things the same way, nor to the same extent she did _before_. On the tattered canvas that was once Narcissa's rich social life, only one thing had remained. Her son. Lucius assumed that he redeemed himself partially in Narcissa's eyes after the things he had done during Draco's eight school year. It was a cunning little ploy, fooling both sides and luring his former allies into a trap fashioned by Shacklebolt and few of his smart men. It had worked, but the reputation of his family name was ruined even further, and to the present day there were people who believed Lucius allied himself with Death eaters on the run back then. The world was full of idiots, it was something he knew. At the present time, his son was making a path through the world for himself, and what Lucius had done then probably didn't help much, but it did save Draco and Narcissa from getting killed. For that reason only, everything Lucius had been through was worth.

Draco was alive. He was certainly happy, it was obvious; just as he was many other things Lucius couldn't say about himself right now. Draco didn't speak about it, in a proper Malfoy way, and it bothered Lucius who did his best to ignore this matter.

They did not talk about things like personal fulfillment or taking pleasure in one's own work. The Malfoy family didn't sit at the table discussing happiness or sadness or anything any of the like. Those things went unspoken. Affection was meant to be shown, but not in public. That was the tradition, and tradition was everything. It was rather simple, and it worked, for all of his life the old ways have never failed him. Until now. All this new... nonsense was sort of unsettling and odd.

Narcissa was tossing the tradition into the wind, quite merrily, in Lucius' opinion. When they first met their granddaughter, in a Muggle hospital no less, Narcissa was only too happy to take the small baby in her arms and smile. (He had almost forgotten _that_smile). Hermione was in a completely weepy state, which did not seem to baffle Narcissa even the slightest bit. She held the girl's hand and actually comforted her, they talked quietly, while Lucius stood by the window. Draco was in St. Mungo's at the time, and Lucius couldn't feel more out of place than he did.

That was nearly six months ago. He saw Emily on several more occasions – once when he and Narcissa went to visit their son, shortly after Hermione and Emily had come home and Draco recovered from his Quiddich adventure. Lucius ended up feeling uncomfortable in their home, counting objects and devices he knew no use of, because they were obviously from the Muggle world. And yet again, he did not dare – no – he did not attempt to hold his granddaughter. He noticed that Narcissa moved in a familiar fashion around the place, and the same could be said about her way of handling the baby girl. She did visit her son and her daughter in law quite often, especially since the baby was born. Lucius, in turn, spent a fair share of his time in the Manor's library. He didn't have it in him to tell Narcissa not to go. There was a time in his life when he would have opposed, but that time had passed. Lucius didn't care to contemplate how or when it happened. It wasn't just one single mistake or one particular thing that he did. It was an effort that lasted for years.

Some things between them have shifted since the war. While Lucius was still trying to get used to the title of grandfather, his wife had no problem calling herself "Nana". It wasn't wrong. It was simply scandalous, and he wasn't going to say anything about it.

"Are you attempting to choke yourself with that necktie?" his wife was looking flawless- welcoming, warm, even content; and too far away. He smiled faintly and very briefly, before his fingers returned to the offending piece of clothing. "Lucius," Narcissa's voice was firm, but her eyes were soft. There was an unusual feeling inside of his chest as he looked at her. He turned to look at the necktie, eyes trained precisely on his fingers and nowhere else."Do you want to scare your granddaughter?"

He raised an eyebrow at her reflection. She looked him up and down and he realized what she had meant.

"Any other color would do, darling," she said. There was no point in protesting. The last word sounded like she'd meant it, though, and that made Lucius' fingers linger above the necktie just a little bit.

Damn this, he thought, realizing that he was clad in black.

"Here they come," Draco sighed, leaning forward to get a better look through the window. Hermione leaned in, obviously catching the glimpse of familiar white blond hair.

"It's going to be fine," she said resolutely. She put her hand on his, she usually did this when she deduced he needed some comfort. Sometimes it seemed nothing but solid touch was able to get through to him. Draco didn't need comfort, though, he felt more like jumping out of his skin. He had forgotten why all of this was so important. Hermione said something about families spending Christmas together, and Zabini had advised him not to bother discussing the whole point of it with his wife or mother. He allowed Hermione to organize and orchestrate the entire thing. She excelled at it, while he was good with the financing part.

"Did anyone tell you, you are terribly optimistic?" he asked.

"Once or twice," she said, turning to kiss him gently on the cheek. "Don't be so nervous. Your father will behave."

"That, coming from you," Draco squared his shoulders, turning in the direction of the living room and the cheerful sound of voices.

He had people at his home – a respectable number of people. There were some who worked with him, some who worked with Hermione, there had been friends, and Hermione's parents. Those people liked him, or at least respected his work, and Draco had earned it.

He wasn't worried about his mother meeting anyone from his social circle. He was aware of what she was doing for him; her effort to advance his life, any aspect of it was a sharp, painful contrast to the last demand his father had of him. He had an unpleasant thought about his father making a remark that would stun the entire room into silence.

_Don't__fail__me,__son.__Come__over__to__the__right__side._

Draco remembered too many moments when his father made the choices for him. He didn't think much of it as a child, until he found himself as a young man in a life of his father's making. There was a faded tattoo like mark on his left forearm, the reason why he avoided exposing his arms. It was rendered useless, but magic like that was like a permanent scar, or perhaps a missing limb. Sometimes it still felt like it was burning him.

That was the last thing his father ever _made_ him do.

"Yes, from me," Hermione straightened the collar of his shirt and the cardigan he was wearing. The clothes were her choosing – neutral and light, and made him feel more alive, as she had said. Hermione gave him an assuring look. "You need to change this necktie," she said practically, eying his attire and finding a stain that looked like it was Emily's doing.

"Sweet Merlin, again?" he sighed. Emily was going to be an end to all of his neckties. Hermione smiled.

Hermione had seen his Dark Mark during their eight year of school. He still wasn't certain how exactly his mother convinced him to go back; but mother was rarely mistaken about the truly important things. That year had been more difficult than he expected, and in some way, more challenging than the war itself. Finding a way out of the darkness where his father forced him to was something Draco didn't know how to do, and without Hermione, his chances to succeed would have been abysmal.

He didn't want to do anything with her at first. He didn't hate her as much as he hated himself, and he had been surprised when he realized that she didn't hate him at all. Instead she wanted to understand, and then later she offered compassion, while she called him on each and every unfair thing he did to others and to himself. She had given him a first real glimpse into the Muggle world when she came to the Manor at Christmas that year and took him to Muggle London. It was the first time in a long time when Draco didn't feel like a walking poster of a war criminal. Nobody knew him there and the feeling of freedom was sudden and unsettling and _hopeful_.

It was just slightly after Christmas, when his father had disappeared after Death Eater's attack on the Manor, when she came to his quarters. Not even Slythern house wanted him then, and even they didn't state it out loud, he was smart enough to request a separate room. It was a cold evening, and he didn't want to tell Hermione the names of two Rawenclaws who tried to hex him. He got out of it with a cut lip and a bruised pride, and he was telling her to give up, to stop helping him, because things would never change. He watched her as she rolled up her sleeve until he could see delicate skin of her forearm and the scaring letters there; a word "mudblood" marring her skin. The feeling of guilt rendered him immobile for a couple of moments, enough for her to roll up the sleeve of his shirt. Until then he could try and pretend that it was a rumor, that he didn't actually have it, but the Mark was there, black and striking against his pale arm. Ever since he got it Draco avoided looking at it, but then he stared at it transfixed, as if he looked into a mirror and didn't recognize the face that looked back at him. He didn't even register Hermione's voice calling him, so she did the touch thing – she covered his Mark with her hand.

"Draco," she had said, and it was a rare occasion when she called him by his given name. "The scars _mark_ us, Draco, but they don't say who we are, only what we've been through," she had said.

And then, right then did he fall in love with her. It was a way he had walked halfway already, but that moment was what had sealed the deal on his end. Perhaps it wasn't particularly romantic, and perhaps it was perfect, but right then he had initiated their second ever kiss in his cold and unappealing room. He had ignored the pain in his lip, kissing her like he was making a statement, and she had kissed him back like she didn't want to let go of him ever again.

And she hadn't.

Hermione's fussing with his clothes brought him back to reality.

"As far as your father is concerned, I think he's motivated to put his best foot forward," she said, trying to tuck his tie under his cardigan in a way that would conceal the inflicted damage.

"Speaking like a true Slytherin now, Granger?" he joked falsely, attempting to keep all the memories in check, and she saw right through him. He could tell.

"I am obviously spending too much of my time with you," she answered, gently stroking his cheek. "It needs to be done," she added. He nodded, feeling too troubled to be anything but agreeable – if he let his temper rule him, and his thoughts of his father take the better of him, then this little gathering would end sooner than a Quiddich match between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Instead he kept his eyes on his wife's face.

Hermione Granger was always a girl who wanted to change the world, against all odds. He mocked that trait, but he was secretly jealous of her conviction. She didn't change the entire world, but she had possibly changed a fraction of it. It was a start. Their society still suffered from post war aftershocks. Hermione did change him, though, but she didn't stop at just one thing – causing him to become civil to her, making him stand up for himself, getting passed all of his defenses. Merlin knew he never meant to love her, but he did.

Hermione didn't leave things halfway done. She didn't know how to stop or resort to past, she only knew how to move forward. Well, Draco didn't give up either, but he had a habit of avoiding personally troubling issues. He did marry a Gryffindor, though, and she found a way, sooner or later, to bring him to face whatever was the matter. It was a soft push and pull and she'd give him time to be ready for something. This time around she insisted, and Draco knew why. It wasn't just him, or them, or Lucius. There was Emily as well, and Draco squared his shoulders and slid the necktie back into place, deciding that he didn't care about the stain. Life was full of stains, anyhow. One just had to live with them, and perhaps attempt their best to clean them up.

Narcissa Malfoy was a practical woman. For all of her life, she knew where her place was. In her youth she was supportive of her family's ideals, and she indeed did everything her parents required of her. It was the right thing back then. The life, though, had a way of changing one's views, and she was quite comfortable knowing that hers did change.

It was simple, really. Choosing between pureblood ideals and her living son was a simple matter. There had been no doubts. She felt a beating heart under her fingers, and didn't doubt which side would let her son survive. She picked up her pieces and carried them away after everything was said and done, leaving her name out of the final battle. Perhaps it was cowardly, but it was human.

It was that choice that led to other choices, which have finally led her here, and she thought it was a quite fine place to be. She didn't share Lucius's dilemmas any more. He was a man who's life was defined by tradition, a moody aging wizard with a bad leg and little reputation left; while her life was ultimately devoted to her family. Tradition and family had meant the same thing for quite a while, but when she had to choose, it felt like cutting a dead branch from the tree. Sometimes it felt like cutting off Lucius right along, but most of the times there was that haunted look on his face, and a lack of words on his lips. She wished to reach out to him, say something to bridge the gap, but he remained locked in the library, and most of the time out of her grasp.

She didn't choose Lucius, her parents did; but she did choose not to leave him. In the beginning she knew she had a duty toward him, but it hadn't stayed that way. It became more – perhaps not a whirlwind romance, but a quiet way of loving someone deeply flawed. Her husband had his qualities and she wasn't going to tear down something that took her years to build. He was welcome to walk through the library door at any time and she would accept his company. Lucius was aware of this. Sometimes it felt like her loyalty was being abused, but the cold space between the two of them also meant more free space for their son. It was just another choice.

In a way, it felt like she didn't change much. She was still supportive of her family after all, even if that meant Draco's surprising choice of life companion. Hermione Granger was smart and a fighter; she had saved Draco's life.

She loved him – she chose him, and Narcissa understood choices.

The house where her son lived was small, yet very pleasant. The crowded space made every corner somehow meaningful. It took several years for Narcissa to feel comfortable amongst other people. The group here was mixed and seemed mostly tolerant towards her and Lucius. Narcissa held her cup of tea and looked over to where her son and daughter in law stood, conversing with Neville Longbottom and Blaise Zabini. It was an unusual gathering, but she preferred it to company ruled by fear. Drinking tea with Mrs. Granger while their respective husbands were engaged in what seemed as a polite conversation, during which Lucius wasn't wincing, was certainly unexpected, but not completely unpleasant.

It was a simple matter of motherly duty. Family came first. It was only a happy coincidence that duty once again turned into something more.

Lucius didn't dislike this gathering as much as he expected to. Hermione Granger's father appeared to be an engaging conversationalist, given that one could find some interest in Muggle history or science. Lucius wasn't impressed with most of Muggle things, but then discovered an unexpected interest when outer space exploration popped up in conversation. Now, why would anyone reasonable want to fly themselves out of the Earth's orbit and risk their lives for a glimpse of something they could never properly grasp? However, it did seem rather interesting, even if it was foolish. Lucius would certainly never admit that it was an admirable accomplishment, to actually set a foot on the Moon. Also, it sounded like a blasphemy and he wondered if anything was sacred for the Muggles, but then, his rich experience told him the same question could be posed to Wizarding society as well.

The ongoing conversation with his son was something he was quietly pleased about. The last time he'd seen Draco was last month, however the last time he'd seen his granddaughter was – well. She was certainly much smaller back then, and she didn't show any interest in him whatsoever.

At the moment Draco was telling him about his newest business undertakings while holding the little girl against his chest. It was an imagery that did all sorts of weird things to his thinking. Lucius wasn't used to being distracted so easily, yet every time when small fingers managed to grab one or any other piece of his clothing, his attention would shift. In the meantime his son was making a valiant attempt to actually talk to him.

" - I was wondering if you'd care to – father? Are you listening?"

Lucius realized that he wasn't, not really. There was some kind of business matter Draco had to attend to, and he was suggesting that he join him, but the point of this undertaking was escaping him. Lucius suspected he wanted to run away just as much as Draco did, but his son was trying. Yet Lucius didn't turn and leave. His granddaughter was attempting to pry his pocket watch from his hand, as if she was trying to force him into some kind of communication with herself and her father; and Lucius wondered why he wasn't as annoyed as he should have been. Children had to be taught manners from the earliest age, after all.

"Baaaaaaa!"

Draco chuckled, relaxing so obviously. Lucius raised an eyebrow at him. It seemed that he had this child in his hands just as much as the Granger girl did.

"Why don't you hold her?" Draco's eyebrow shot up and his lips quirked. "We can discuss this at some later point. You do seem more interested in talking to her," said his son with a smirk and then Lucius found himself with an armful of a curious, squirming child. "You can handle watching her for a moment, right? Hermione is just over there -" he gestured behind his back, toward the group of guests.

Damn if Lucius was going to admit any kind of insecurity over handling something as harmless as a small child. He shooed his son with a wave of his hand. With Draco gone, Lucius experienced something akin to run – and - hide instinct. And run he did, straight toward the nursery, not wanting any witnesses to this.

Lucius knew where the room was, but he had never actually been inside. To his surprise – and pleasure – he found the room quite satisfying. Namely, there was not a single Muggle object in sight, save from several stars hanging above the bed, which he found ultimately harmless. The colors of the room were quite nice, soothing greens and yellows and the entire room was quiet. Skillful silencing spells, filtering most, but not all noise from outside. Lucius approved of the greens of course, while the yellows, thankfully, weren't quite the glaring Gryffindor ones. His granddaughter – Emily – shifted in his hold, stretching her tiny hand in the direction of the window and made one of those unsettling baby – sounds he never quite understood the way his wife did. Pre – verbal communication with children could be a daunting task, but then again, children of this age and size were easier handled than little brats who could talk and ask questions. Sweet Merlin, he thought, some day this little one will be asking questions.

He did understand enough of Emily's signals to walk toward the window and wave his hand in the direction of the curtains, which parted effortlessly. Emily made a sound that resembled a giggle when the fabric swooshed.

"Well, you are quite perceptive, aren't you?" he said, waving his hand again. The curtains closed. Emily giggled louder. "My, my. I can only assume you recognize a powerful wizard when you see one. What a pleasant surprise, indeed," he continued, realizing that his voice had softened considerably. But he was decidedly _not_smiling, he was not letting Emily ruin all his effort at scarf – tying, and he was most definitely not looking around the room for more objects to move with a wave of his hand.

Hermione decided she could stop holding her breath. Apart from two broken glasses, there hadn't been any major emergency. There haven't been long and awkward silences, and nobody had been hexed, even though Ron threatened to do so at any sign of trouble on the part of Hermione's in laws. She could not prevent him and Draco calling each other ferret and weasel, respectively, but there hadn't been bad blood between them any more. They didn't necessarily like each other, but lately Hermione noticed a striking absence of old grudges between the two. With Harry it had always been easier. Ron was always more stubborn, while Harry had that remarkable ability to forgive people. He had also been much more diplomatic than Ron. She'd seen him talking to Narcissa, something that didn't surprise her, all things considered; and she'd seen him sharing silences with Draco. It felt like an echo of the changes going through their entire society, inching toward an acceptance of differences. Too slow, in Hermione's opinion, but it was getting better, and she sometimes felt like she personally led the parade.

Living what she was preaching wasn't always easy. Hermione found that one could give a precise list of reasons why they hated someone else. There would probably be the things that other person had done, or reasons why they posed a threat. It was different with love. Things would just come together and at one point you'd find yourself attached. Everything would suddenly make sense. She didn't really know how or when she fell in love with Draco. She was so very lonely through their eight year at school, often feeling she was fighting a brand new war. Some of her friends asked her if reforming former Death Eaters was her new cause. Maybe it was the fact that both she and Draco felt isolated, and that she came to know him in a completely different light. Hermione never did things halfway, she never closed her eyes when face with unpleasant truths. The world forged in her battle was still unkind and divided; and Draco had been a challenge at first. He was smart, he was complicated, he needed someone. There was probably attraction she didn't want to address at first. At one point their discussions had become the favorite part of her day, one thing that made her feel like she was making a difference.

That year she was supposed to spend several days at the Burrow but all she could think about was Draco, the Malfoy Manor and the fact that entire Wizarding population wouldn't even send them a kind word for the holidays. That was something they had probably deserved, but it didn't feel right, and she had almost gotten into a fight with Harry and Ron, but she had gone there.

Even the sight of the Manor, solitary against the frozen landscape was unsettling, but Hermione wasn't a quitter. A house elf greeted her at the entrance, and she requested to see Draco. She wasn't entirely ready to enter, and it turned out that he wasn't unwilling to go with her. He didn't even ask her where she wanted to take him.

It wasn't anything spectacular, but it had been just right. She took him to Muggle London and they walked down the streets where nobody recognized them. They didn't talk much, and at one point they linked their arms while walking through the crowd. They listened to carol singers and had a tea in some quiet cafeteria, content to be simply Draco and Hermione, instead of war hero and a traitor.

It was evening when she walked him back to the pompous steel gate and he joked that it should have been other way around – him, being male, should have escorted his date to her door. Hermione told him as she blushed that Gryffindors weren't really the rule abiding folk, and now, when she was already breaking the rules of dating – not that they had been dating – she would do another unthinkable thing. Perhaps it was the rum she had with her tea, but it was probably something completely else that made her stand on her toes, curl her fingers into the fabric of his coat and kiss him. She aimed for the corner of his lips, but he moved and the kiss turned out completely different than she had intended.

After that, many other things in Hermione's life turned out differently than she expected them to. Her husband was lovely when he wasn't being impossible (something she'd gotten used to), and her mother – in - law was, quite frankly, a surprise of a pleasant kind. Part of that had to be duty and something that was simply expected of of her, but Hermione had to admit that there had been kindness as well. Her father - in - law, however, was a completely different matter. Lucius Malfoy wasn't a nice or a pleasant man, and in her opinion, he did more damage to Draco than anyone or anything else. Hermione didn't really like him, but she found a way to accept his presence.

There was some truth in all those Slytherin and pureblood ideals. Blood did matter. Not in the way purebloods preached, though. Draco's relationship with his father was something hard to define, a matter on which Hermione could write books. She was blessed with a supportive set of parents, and most of her friends were as well. Nobody else she knew had this kind of love, hurt and resentment tinged relationship with a parental figure.

Speaking of which – she was currently looking for Draco, and she found him in a precarious position between Ron and George. They were engaged in a conversation, but there had been a suspicious looking content in Draco's glass, one of purple color, and Hermione suspected it was yet another prototype that needed to be tested on a willing guinea pig. It was a mystery why Draco agreed to be one so often, but it could have had something to do with "only a ninny wouldn't dare to try it" argument that felt valid back in their school days.

"There you are," she walked into the kitchen, which caused the three of them to offer her innocent looks that didn't really suit them. "Malfoy," she addressed her husband, because she was slightly annoyed. Here he was, having a little frat party when he should have been taking care of guests and their daughter. "Where is Emily?"

"Isn't she with you?" he asked, putting the suspicious glass safely behind his back and onto the kitchen counter.

"She obviously isn't. Did you lose your only daughter, Malfoy?"

"I certainly did not. My father volunteered to look after her for awhile and – what?"

"Your father?" Hermione was surprised and she panicked just a little bit. She wasn't afraid of Lucius, but she doubted he'd be able to adequately watch over a small child for a longer period of time. He simply lacked – well, just about anything that would make him a sweet, nurturing grandparent; he definitely wasn't Narcissa. Emily could be a handful, and watching over her certainly wouldn't work out without some type of interaction.

"He isn't going to drop her," Draco said somewhat defensively. There was something almost pleading in his eyes and Hermione didn't have the heart to start a discussion.

George found the decency to cough. "Ehm, we think it's better if we let the two of you handle this -"

"-situation," Ron finished, giving Draco a slightly pitiful look. With that they made a hasty retreat toward the living room and the rest of the guests. Hermione looked at her husband as the brothers fled quickly.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," Hermione sighed, "I think you and I need to determine if our daughter needs rescuing. Or, possibly, if your father needs it."

Lucius decided, after long inspection and contemplation, that Emily resembled her father more. She did seem to have her mother's hair color – he only hoped her hair wouldn't turn into a wild bush of something prickly. However, her face bore more resemblance to a Malfoy, and she did remind him of Draco, when he was this small.

She also looked at him without any resentment, fear, contempt or anything but childlike curiosity. It was a decent and pleasing change. It was also quite unsettling as well, and he found himself sitting next to Emily's little bed, watching her sleep, and thinking about the inevitable day when this little girl would learn the meaning of the words 'Death Eater'.

That thought felt much like regret.

He also wondered if she would look at him quite the same way she was looking at him today. He found that the looks most of the wizarding population was still giving him didn't matter as much as this unpleasant notion. Lucius shifted in his seat, leaning forward a little bit and shifting to relieve the pressure on his bad leg. There had been time when he did this, and watched the only other baby child he cared to hold and entertain.

He also found that he needed a way to fill the silence.

"You should remember, Emily, that if anyone should bother you, you can point them out to your rather intimidating grandfather. People still don't take chances when it comes to actually annoying me," he said. "Perhaps you'd find that I can be useful for other matters as well," he continued, even though those other matters didn't spring to his mind as readily as intimidating anyone who'd even dare to hurt this child. He didn't get the best Quiddich tickets any more – however his daughter - in - law did. The world had changed and threw it into his face. It felt somewhat ridiculous to think that he could feel comfortable with his dignity level in rare occasions and, as much as he hated to admit it, this was one of them.

He was pretty sure he knew what Narcissa would say now. Things about being practical and at peace with oneself. Lucius wasn't particularly excited about to repeating those conversations to himself. He remembered them sufficiently well.

Being at peace with oneself. What a silly thing. He folded his hands over the head of his expensive walking cane and leaned back in the chair.

"As I said, Emily – and you should remember it -"

He stopped, realizing that the door behind him have opened. It was only his daughter – in - law, and he gave her a proper reprimanding look, because the racket she was making could certainly wake the baby. Draco was right behind her with the look of disbelief.

"Is there a problem?" Lucius asked, mustering all of his once famous attitude in a single stare.

"There isn't any problem," Granger girl elaborated, valiantly holding his gaze. "We simply wanted to check how -" she seemed momentarily lost for words, which was a memorable thing in itself, "the two of you are doing," She finished amiably enough, but Lucius knew doubt when he saw it.

He graciously decided to ignore this, and was content with his position, so he didn't move.

"I am quite competent on keeping an eye on my granddaughter," he said, deciding that the sleeping child was more interesting sight than her parents who were trying to hide their surprise, or perhaps panic, and doing so quite badly, in fact.

That, and Lucius really didn't want to look at that watery smile his daughter – in - law was sporting.

"Didn't she need changing?"

That was Draco. For a smart young man, he was sometimes quite dense. Lucius turned around, gracing them with another of his aristocratic looks.

"I'll have you know, son, that I did raise you," Lucius said. And what memorable job he did, indeed. "Your mother didn't do everything all alone." That came out much different than he intended to, though. His throat felt tight. He didn't really feel comfortable looking at two young people standing at the door. Suddenly he wished to be left alone, preferably with someone who was still too innocent to impart judgment on the world.

Now that thought felt truly uncomfortable, but then, most of Lucius's life had felt precisely like that.

"Of course you did," that was the Granger girl. Lucius found that he didn't mind the understanding belying her voice. "Thank you for keeping an eye on her. Would you care for some tea?" she asked.

"That... would be quite lovely," he said, keeping his eyes on his folded hands. A moment later he did turn around. "Thank you," he added quietly.

Draco shifted in the darkness, stirring Hermione awake. Hermione opened her eyes. She was about to fall asleep quite soon, and she thought Draco had already been sleeping. She turned onto her side, facing his back when he started speaking.

"He doesn't look himself in the mirror any more. Have you noticed?"

Hermione rubbed her eyes. Draco's day had been eventful, to say the least. She turned towards his side of the bed – he lay on his side, facing away from her, but yet metaphorically reaching out for her; curled into his thoughts. She could recognize the characteristic tension of it, and she shifted toward his bent back and spooned herself around his longer body. He felt tense under her touch.

"I have noticed, but I wasn't certain. How do you know?" she asked.

Even though she was sleepy, any clarification was unnecessary. His family, more precisely his father had always had the same effect on Draco. The Gryffindor in her knew that hiding from your fears was never useful. Their relationship had always been of the push and pull nature. Sometimes he pulled her towards improper, decadent, _delightful_ things. Sometimes she pushed him to face his doubts and fears he was trying to avoid. It wasn't the quietest marriage, but it was certainly never dull.

"I just know," he answered. "Must be terrible for a man with manicured hands." He observed, pulling up the defensive walls. Hermione could almost feel them under her fingers, but then she was experienced in finding doorways or climbing over them. The first time when his father did get his hands truly dirty was after the war – in some way it was the best thing he did, but it was still a topic the two men didn't discuss.

"I have a feeling it's been terrible for you as well," she whispered against his back. He tensed just slightly. Oh, damn it all, she thought. Years have passed. The two of them, ashamed father and bittered son could stop this now. "Draco," she whispered softly, "He's your father."

"And quite a loathsome human being as well," he added. Hermione closed her eyes, concentrating. _If__he__is__that,__it__doesn't__mean__you__are__as__well_, she thought. It didn't mean things couldn't change. That very belief brought her here after all. She always made it clear that she fought for a better world, and not a version of their old divides.

"Not everything he's done has been loathsome. Especially not the things he's done lately," she said. "Also, he's to be thanked for your existence," she added with a smile.

"Hermione," he said slowly. Her name was reserved for moments when he was feeling vulnerable or open, and when he was saying things he wouldn't repeat anywhere else. Then he continued quietly in a voice that didn't sound very sure. "Are you advocating for my father?"

"I am advocating for your right to care for him. To spend time with him. Travel with him," she said, rubbing his arm. "He's been pardoned. Do you think he can be forgiven? By you, no less?"

Hermione felt her husband's long and slow inhale. She held him a little bit tighter. This was all for him. She didn't particularly need Lucius Malfoy around, but Draco did, and Hermione continued carefully.

"He was quite nice today. Approachable even. My father actually _liked_ him. And he seemed to enjoy his time with Emily."

Oh she was advocating for Lucius right now. Perhaps it should have felt wrong but it didn't.

"I don't know. I want to -" Draco paused to find her fingers with his; wrap her hand with his. "I'd like to believe he means it."

"Why don't we wait and see?" she said. When in doubt, best to be Slytherin patient. "He's your blood after all."

"Granger," he almost snorted, his tone sounding lighter. "Are you telling me about blood now? Is the sky falling down?"

"It may as well be, darling," she rolled her eyes at him when he shifted to turn around and face her. "I might have imagined it, but I think I saw the notorious Lucius Malfoy smiling. He may be human being after all," she joked.

She could see Draco watching her intently, with one of those hard to read expressions that used to make her feel uncomfortable. Whatever he was going to say or do was unpredictable, but she was at ease with his unpredictability.

"Hermione," he said, then paused. There was it again. "Can you forgive him?"

She wanted to kiss him right then, but that wasn't the answer he needed. Somehow he chose her for his compass.

"Have you forgotten the eight year already?" she smiled into the semi darkness. "That conversation about holding onto old hatred, like a safety shield?" He didn't move. It had been quite a speech, considering it was George Weasley giving it to Ron, but to everyone else for that matter. It was the most serious thing she had heard, coming from George's mouth - your brother wouldn't want you to waste your life with hate. He loved to laugh. He would want you to laugh, you git. Stop waving your hurt like a banner, because it's pathetic. "I have forgiven him," Hermione said and the words fell easily from her lips.

"Really?" he asked, his tone honestly surprised, and broke her heart a little. "When?"

"I don't even know," she answered honestly. "I did. I couldn't love you and ... not forgive the man who fathered you. I may not get along with him -"

He touched her cheek with his knuckles. The gesture was so old fashioned, but heartfelt.

"I love you, Granger," he said. It came out a bit suddenly, in an unguarded fashion. The tension loosened.

"Mmmm. I do like it when you say that," she teased, letting him off the hook for the time being. Baby steps. He wasn't a Gryffindor after all, but he would get to a point where he could think of Lucius as a flawed man and his father, and nothing more.

He pulled her closer, leaning his cheek against her hair, making an effort to keep his voice light. Hermione knew him too well to buy his nonchalance. "Can't say it too often, though. The words would go to spoil."

She kissed his chest.

"Draco Malfoy, there are things in this world not even you can spoil," she said, letting him kiss her.

_Five years later_

Emily Malfoy was a well behaved five year old. Well, technically she was almost six. Lucius liked to think that he'd instilled at least some of those good manners in her – she never embarrassed him anywhere, when he came to think of that, and he'd certainly been taking her to all kinds of places. Now he certainly understood what Narcissa was so excited about when Emily was a baby. He was not the best person to describe it, but if he had to sum it up, he'd say that he felt successful. As in, good at something; even if he wasn't completely happy about the fact that he was probably better as a grandfather than a father.

Pick up the pieces, take them with you and make of them what you can. Narcissa's credo.

Even after all those years there were plenty of people who sharply stared at Lucius when he showed up at one or another public spot or function. Most of those people didn't really dare _say_ anything – not that he cared what they had to say to _him_ because he had heard it all. Blood traitor, or just a plain traitor; coward, scum, Dark Lord's servant, murderer (that one was a false accusation). Those couldn't hurt him any more, but there was one person he was worried about.

His granddaughter. One might call him a hypocrite and say he should have thought about that before he went chasing and terrorizing innocent people. But then he was a hypocrite, he guessed, just not one without any heart. He didn't want people to hurt Emily – and he didn't want them to use him as a means to hurt her.

It really came down to oh so many things his daughter – in - law was preaching.

But anyway, his granddaughter was just about perfect as any child could be. Lucius was content to spoil her as much as her parents would allow – there was no negotiation on things his daughter in law called "the ground rules". He did get to spend every Sunday afternoon with Emily – Draco or his wife; or even the two of them together would bring her to the Manor, for her day with her grandparents. Lucius usually took her for a walk through magical London. She loved the Diagon Alley. They even had a table at _Spoons__and__teacup_s. Jasmine tea for him, chocolate cherry cake for Emily. He'd certainly gone far way from his previous career. Now that was something his son could possibly shake his head about. The things between them weren't perfect, and perhaps they never would be, but he was glad that he and Draco could spend an afternoon each reading his newspaper, and neither would feel forced to do so.

With Emily it was significantly different. She never knew him as anything but her grandparent, and as a the bright – eyed child that she was, she enjoyed asking questions these days. Just as he predicted. The questions were neverending, but he supposed he couldn't expect anything else, considering who her parents were.

Something was odd today, though. The cake wasn't disappearing from the plate at usual speed and Emily, aged five and half, was so seriously deep in thought, that she seemed quite older.

"Darling?" Lucius folded The Daily Prophet and set it aside. His granddaughter had her mother's eyes and hair, but her face bore familiar lines of her father. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

For a moment she was quiet – like Draco had been when he'd done something wrong and didn't want Lucius to find out. Emily was quite different than her father, though. She wasn't a magnet for trouble.

"Grandfather?" she looked at him worriedly.

"What is it?" he asked, his actions balancing precariously between tender and respectable. Emily leaned closer to him, her eyes asking questions.

"Grandfather, what is a Death Eater?"

Well, there went that. He swallowed, feeling slightly self conscious. Emily was watching him intently, expecting an answer, and he supposed he truly owed her one. More than that, he wanted to give her one. Curious thing, life. It was quite... unusual for him to feel that he owed something to anyone.

The important thing was this – sooner or later, Emily would find out the truth. Her mother had been a great advocate of telling children the truth in an age appropriate way. Lucius had yet to find an argument against that, and right now, Hermione Granger might have been right. But even if he did deny certain things, all those history books at Hogwarts were going to prove him wrong. Emily was a Malfoy. Certain things came with that last name, and Lucius was well aware that his son had decided to raise his children differently from the upbringing he himself received.

A serious conversation required a serious face.

"Come here, sweetheart," he said, and the girl went to him obediently. He lifted her to his lap – she was still small enough to sit on the thigh of his good leg. Now this was somewhat unusual, considering they were in a public place, but Lucius recounted what Narcissa often said. A Slytherin would do anything for their family, which was why he didn't care if some people were curiously looking at him.

Namely, Lucius Malfoy didn't care what other people thought of him, but he did care what his granddaughter thought and believed. He knew that this conversation would be an important part of how she lived with herself later in her life.

"That's a very important question, Emily," he started kindly. He wasn't this kind with Draco, he realized. She looked proud, because he was going to speak to her about something important. Here was why this mattered to him - Emily was never afraid or ashamed of him. Emily loved him. Lucius wasn't able to say that about anyone else in his life.

For this he would do what any Slytherin would do – he would do anything for his family. Even if it meant crushing himself.

"Death Eater is – not a very nice thing to be," he started. It wasn't a very eloquent speech, though, but it would serve a purpose for now.

"Like a really bad person?" Emily provided.

"Yes, something like that."

She frowned and then her face turned into a guilty expression.

"Patrick Finnegan told me you were a Death Eater," she whispered, with eyes round and big as saucers, and it made Lucius sad. At the age of five she didn't deserve to listen about such things, not to mention another five year old was supposed to tell her this, but the world wasn't fair.

Age appropriate truth, he thought to himself. It might not be pretty, but it would serve to protect her from the likes such as that Finnegan boy.

"I was, sweetheart. What I did was wrong. It was really wrong."

There. He said it, something he wasn't able to say to Draco, and perhaps never will be. Lucius hoped, though, that his son understood. He was fairly certain that Draco had forgiven him as well. His most valued audience regarded him quietly, seriously.

"But you are nice," she said.

"I suppose I can be, when I want to," he answered, smiling at her. Lucius had several types of smiles, and this one was one that came without planning or previous practice. It just was. "I'll always be nice to you."

Nice touch, he thought. But that was one promise he was intending to keep.

Emily was serious for a few more moments. She took after her mother – she took things seriously, she thought about them, she asked questions. He only realized he was holding his breath when she reached to give him one of those hugs only children were capable giving.

"I still like you," she said seriously. At that moment she sounded completely like her mother, bless her. He might not enjoy admitting it, after all this time, but Hermione Granger was kind. She was raising this child with that kindness and she had treated his son in the same kind fashion, allowing it to extend to Draco's mother, and then, him as well. Lucius held his granddaughter with one hand effortlessly as she put her little head onto his shoulder. Emily sighed distressingly, " I'll kick Patrick Finnegan's butt."

Now that was _absolutely_ like her father.

"I doubt your mother would approve of that, darling," he said, but privately he was quite amused. He was a little pleased as well. His daughter in law certainly wouldn't approve, but he did – if not the intention, he approved of the attitude. One had to be naïve and unwise to let people off the hook easily.

"We don't tell her, okay?" she asked, her hug turning very tight around his dark blue robes. It was quite some time ago when Lucius mostly gave up on black clothing.

"No sweetheart, we won't tell her, but you shouldn't kick anyone," he said, gathering his thoughts carefully. This was a moment when he had a chance to do something better than before. "It's much better to outsmart them, you know?" Do the right thing, he mused, but at least do it in a Slytherin way.

Emily moved to look up at him, smiling brilliantly. "Yes, grandfather," she said, settling into another hug.

At that moment the rest of his family – Narcissa, Draco and Hermione were entering Spoons and teacups. Lucius didn't see them, didn't see their expressions, didn't see the way his son looked at his wife. Or the way his son looked at him, for that matter. He didn't see it, because he was quite busy feeling content.

Family first, he thought later, as the day continued on. Family first.


End file.
